On A Wing And A Prayer: Day of Infamy
by Vi Co
Summary: Another in the same series. This one takes place on December 7, 1941.
1. Stalag 13, Germany

December 7, 1941 -- Stalag 13, Germany

"Good God, LeBeau," Captain Scott gasped around the thick concoction in his mouth, "could you have made this taste any worse?"

"Captain," he replied softly, "it is not intended to be eaten."

"Not to be eaten?" he questioned, sandy eyebrows rising half-way up his forehead. "Why in God's name would you make travelling food that is not intended to be eaten. How are our boys supposed to survive?"

"Those are the blocks of dye that Laurent and Irving use to darken our uniforms. The energy bars that I have made," he explained, trying hard not to laugh at the Englishman, "are on the other side of the table."

Without another word Scott took off for the door to the barracks. Throwing open the flimsy wooden door with a bang, and forgetting the system of stooges for the moment, he leaned over and spit the mouthful of bitter dye out onto the frozen ground.

"What'd you go and do that for?" demanded LeClerc from his undignified position on the ground. When Scott had burst through the door he had knocked the lanky Frenchman from his stool and into the pile of snow to the side of the step. "I've got half a mind to…"

"My apologies, LeClerc," Scott answered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "There was a minor incident in the kitchen."

LeClerc looked at Scott as though he had grown another head. "Captain," he started, somewhat awkwardly, "I'm not sure if you knew, well, if you were aware that, um…"

"Out with it already," Scott said, placing his hands on his hips and gazing at the prone Frenchman. Scott did many things well, but tiptoeing around a subject wasn't one of them.

"Your mouth, sir, it's black."

"Actually, I was aware of that." Scott's face turned red despite his nonchalant tone. LeBeau appeared in the doorway, white cap worn high on his head in an attempt to extend his height. "What is it, LeBeau?"

"It's the men in the tunnels, sir. They've shut down all work and Brown has sealed them down there because no one seems to know what the problem is. The forgers have hidden everything away. The tailors are apparently going frantic trying to hide everything and Newkirk's stuck with a was of Reichsmarks as big as his fist. Mind you, he's not complaining, but if there's a search…. And this barracks doesn't have any hiding places for it," LeBeau rattled off quickly, looking first left, and then right, and then back again, in search of the Germans that everyone feared would be knocking down the doors any second. There were none in sight.

Scott started, eyes darting from building to building, searching for Germans or for anything that would appear out of the ordinary. But there was nothing. There wasn't a guard closer than the wire. The only thing that was unusual was the black spot on the snow that Scott had created. "What signal went up?"

"Je ne sais pas," LeBeau said shrugging, his eyes still moving in all directions. There was a trick to it, making sure that you could see everything but not turning your head so that the guards didn't know that you were watching for them. "But it must have been big."

Four men were approaching from different directions, their walks carefully casual, their pace brisk, but not too fast. They didn't dare call out or signal, but they were obviously preoccupied. Scott, followed closely by LeBeau, walked at the same carefully casual pace out to meet them. "What the hell is it, men? Why has everything shut down?" he growled, his voice low.

"Captain," one of them whispered anxiously, "one of our stooges suddenly vanished. We don't know what happened, and it's not like him to desert his post."

LeBeau looked back to where LeClerc was wrapping his blanket around himself and retaking his seat on the stool. "Um, Captain Scott," LeBeau started. Scott cut him off.

"Not now, corporal. What do you mean he vanished?" Scott demanded irritably, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand again. "You mean that he sent up a signal? Shifted position?"

"No, sir. The man on cross-watch looked at the left grid and all was fine. Then he checked the right grid. There was nothing. But when he looked back at the left grid again, the stooge was gone. Vanished, he said. There was no sign of the signal or anything."

"Captain Scott," LeBeau tried again.

"Not now, corporal. Would he have gone inside for a moment to warm up? Fallen asleep? Surely he couldn't have vanished."

"No, sir. This one's completely reliable. Nothing save an emergency would take him away unless someone relieved him, that's why he was in that spot."

"Captain Scott, when you…."

"I said not now, LeBeau," Scott snapped. "We've got everything in emergency mode and if we don't figure out what's going on, the Germans are going to. That is, if they haven't figured it out already."

"LeClerc was a stooge," LeBeau blurted out before Scott could stop him.

"LeBeau, back to the--" Then he caught himself. "What do you mean, LeClerc was a stooge?"

"LeClerc was the hinge for the left grid. When you burst out the door…" LeBeau let his voice trail off.

Scott picked up, "I knocked him off his seat and out of sight of the cross-watch." Scott sighed and passed his hand over his mouth again. "It's all a false alarm, fellows. Get everyone back to work. Tell them that it was a bad case of French cooking."

"Mais Captain!" LeBeau protested.

"Well, what would you have me tell them?" Scott asked with a black-tinged grin.

"It was a bad case of English taste."


	2. Stalag 13, Germany

December 7, 1941 -- Stalag 13, Germany

Newkirk climbed nimbly though the window and into the barracks. As soon as the shutter was shut behind him, he declared, "Any of you fellows up for a hand or two of poker? Because I'm feeling pretty damn lucky about now." And reaching up his sleeve, he pulled out a thick wad of German marks.

But instead of the expected congratulations and round of back-slapping, Corporal Keegan, the first-line scrounger until Newkirk and his light fingers had arrived, hissed anxiously, "Ya'd better hope to God that your luck holds. We're lockin' down."

Newkirk's eyes widened a little as he ran through his options mentally. As he had been directed, he had returned to Barracks Two as soon as his little raid on the German officer's canteen and the German payroll had been completed. Scott had figured that it would be safer that way. None of the main activities were based out of Barracks Two and nothing else would be endangered if Newkirk's scheme went awry.

But something else obviously had. And Newkirk was stuck in Barracks Two, with no feasible escape, no good hiding spot, and a fist full of pilfered money. Then Newkirk's lips tightened at the corners as he remembered that Keegan hadn't said they were closing up, or sitting tight, or digging in. They had skipped the first three alert levels to head right for lockdown.

There was a quick tattoo of knocks from the north-east corner of the building. Newkirk counted them as his eyes flitted rapidly around the bare room searching a hiding place, any hiding place for the money. Eight knocks. Brown had sealed his men completely in the tunnels. It was bad if Brown wouldn't take the time to pull his men from beneath the damp earth.

Only a moment afterwards there were two knocks from the south-east corner of the building. The tailors were having trouble hiding their work. Five knocks from the north-west corner. The forgers had managed to hide the most delicate stuff and were locking their stuff away. All that remained was the knocking from the north-east corner, the corner that would give the warning heralding the arrival of the Germans. And when that knocking came, all would be too late.

The little French chef, LeBeau, heard the knocking and darted out the open door into the snow covered compound., leaving the others hastily trying to find stowing places for the concentrated food bars that he had been making. They couldn't find places for more than a quarter in the barracks. Those bars of food were the Red Cross parcels from all of the camp. If those couldn't be hidden, how did they expect to hide the wad of marks?

Sighing, Newkirk realised that there wasn't much hope for it. The food bars would only be confiscated, leaving the men with only the punishment of having to live without the luxury. But the money would bring punishment down upon the whole camp. He moved reluctantly closer to the stove, hoping against all hope that the fourth set of knocks wouldn't come.

"Anyone got a cigarette?" Newkirk asked, his jovial tone covering the distress he felt at the whole situation.

The men who were rushing around the barracks turned to look at him in shock. "How can you think of that now?" one of them asked in disbelief, hardly stopping in his rush.

"The one time that I've got money to burn, I'm not going to let the opportunity go to waste," he answered.

Keegan took the time to grin tensely at him and toss him a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket. "Should ha' taken ya up on that offer for a poker game. Because I'd bet me fortune that ya aren't feelin' so bloody lucky now."

Newkirk tapped out one of the cigarettes, feeling the rough paper of the marks against his other hand. He appreciated Keegan's gesture more than he would ever say. In a POW camp, cigarettes were better than cash when it came to bartering. Or even when it came to bribing the German guards for that matter.

That fourth knock still hadn't come and the air was thick with the tension. Barracks Two was the command centre of the operation, not the hub of activity, so there wasn't a lot that could be done. Everything was hidden as well as it could be under the circumstances. And Newkirk was prepared to smoke the most expensive cigarette he'd likely ever smoke in his entire life.

But instead of a fourth knock, the door burst open again. Newkirk froze, his back to the grate on the stove, hiding the money from view. If it needed to be, the money would be gone in a flash and the Germans would never be able to trace it. Fearing the worst, he started inching his hand closer to the stove.

But instead of the guard that Newkirk had been fearing would appear, it was Captain Scott, the energetic SBO and close behind him was LeBeau, white cap still perched precariously on the top of his head. "False alarm, men," Scott said through black lips. "Where are my runners?" Five men stepped forward. "Brown's men first, tailors second, forgers third." They dispersed into the snow, spacing their departures so that the guards wouldn't get suspicious.

Newkirk relaxed a little, his hand starting to move away from the stove. It was looking like he wouldn't have to smoke that expensive cigarette after all. Scott was still giving orders to anyone who would stand still long enough to listen. A false alarm like that was almost worse than the real thing because it could so easily go wrong and bring the Germans down on them.

"Let Barracks Six know that their entrance should stay sealed; we've likely made the Germans jumpy. Barracks Twelve should empty their hiding spots into Barracks Eleven, as of tomorrow the tailors are working out of Twelve. They'll have more room there," Scott rattled off, scarcely stopping for breath. "We'll switch the language class over to Ten."

As the runner next to Scott took off on his errand, Scott finally turned to face Newkirk. "Corporal," he said briskly, "did you manage?"

Newkirk pulled the bills out from behind his back with a flourish. "The offer still stands for a poker game, boys. I'm feeling pretty damn lucky."


	3. London, England

December 7, 1941 -- London, England

"God damn it!"

The outraged shout echoed throughout the nearly empty office building. Hogan pushed himself up to a standing position, his chair crashing back against the filing cabinet crammed into the back corner of his tiny office. Behind him, the radio droned softly on. But no one was listening to that any more.

His tightly controlled anger was evident in his long strides and the dangerous snapping in his dark eyes. He strode past the rows of empty desks toward the back of the building where a light could be seen glowing dimly through the frosted glass panel.

Hogan threw open the door with a bang. General Brecker flinched a little and glared icily as he continued his phone conversation. "Let me go," Hogan declared loudly, not even caring that he was interrupting a superior officer, "now."

Brecker's jaw set and he jabbed a finger in the direction of the door. Hogan didn't so much as blink at the order, staring back at the General. "I'm sorry, sir, but you're going to have to excuse me for a moment," Brecker told whoever was on the other end of the phone tightly. Then he covered up the mouthpiece and glowered at Hogan. "Out," he snapped, returning immediately to his conversation. When there was no sound of footsteps, Brecker raised his head from his papers. "Now."

Hogan still didn't move. "Let me go," he demanded again.

If looks could kill, the one that Brecker gave Hogan would have been more effective than a German bullet. "I'm terribly sorry, but something," the bite on that word could have sliced bread, "has come up." He paused for a second, listening to the person on the other line. "Yes, of course, at your earliest convenience. Thank you for your time." The general's hand was shaking with fury as he placed the receiver back in its cradle. 

"The only place you're going to be going, Private Hogan, is to the stockade unless you've got a damn good explanation for yourself," Brecker spat, as incensed as Hogan had ever seen him. "That was Lord Beaverbrook I had on the line. It'll be weeks before I get worked back into the man's schedule. So this had better be more than a damn good excuse. You're going to need to have a miracle, private."

Hogan's jaw dropped a little as he realised that Brecker didn't know. "Pearl Harbour, sir," he started.

He didn't get any further because Brecker's phone rang again. Staring wrathfully at Hogan, Brecker picked it up. "Brecker," he snapped. Then Hogan could watch as Brecker stood almost to attention. Whoever was on the line this time was someone important. Someone more important than Beaverbrook, which was saying something.

"Yes, sir," he said, as much anger as he could manage dropping out of his tone. "I was consulting with Lord Beaverbrook over the lastest aircraft production figures. There are still a few--"

"No, sir, I've been talking with him for the past hour or so. I had managed to get a block of his time."

Hogan didn't even bother to try and follow the one-sided conversation. He knew what it was about. Instead he abandoned his position at Brecker's door and started prowling around the office, blatantly ignoring Brecker's pointed glares and motions to get out.

"Not since early this morning." Confusion was starting to leach through the anger. "Has something happened, sir?"

This pause was longer than the others. When Brecker answered again, his voice was more subdued, almost shocked. "Yes, of course, sir. I understand. No official comment at this time. President Roosevelt will address Congress tomorrow. Yes, sir. I'll inform my staff. Thank you."

Brecker no sooner had the phone resting in the cradle when Hogan pivoted around to face him. "Let me go, sir, now," Hogan demanded once more.

"And where would you go, Colonel? Back home? To Pearl?" Brecker asked, the same anger that was nearly bubbling over in Hogan starting to build within his own eyes. "It won't bring our boys back."

"We're in this now. No more damned Neutrality. Let me fight." Hogan's sentences were clipped and sharp.

"Give those Nazi bastards hell for us all."


	4. Bullfrog, North Dakota

December 7, 1941 -- Bullfrog, North Dakota

Standing in the doorway of his grandfather's house, Carter bent low to pull the straps on his skis a little tighter before he stepped out onto the blanket of pristine white powder that had fallen during the night. The sun was just starting to poke its head above the horizon and the world was quite. Behind him, his family slept. Before him, there was only an unbroken sheet of white snow.

The ground was as yet unmarked and Carter was almost hesitant to be the first to break the pristine surface. But soon the town would be stirring and this beautiful moment would be lost. So he made the first step, hearing the snow compress beneath his feet and seeing his white breath hover in the air before him.

Before he turned to grab his poles, he reached up to pull his toque down closer over his ears. Then, with no further interruptions, he started off briskly for the fields that ringed the town. There was no sound aside from the soft whisper of the snow passing beneath his skis and the low whistle of the wind as it shaped the loose powder.

Civilisation was soon left behind and there was only an expanse of white before him. The roughness of the ploughed fields was smoothed over by the snowfall. The trees, covered in the thick hoar frost of morning, reached the leafless branches like hands towards the heavens. They sky was grey, not the leaden grey of impending rain nor the hazy grey of fog but the silvery grey of a pre-dawn winter morning.

The ground sloped gently upwards and Carter mounted the crest of the small hill with strong practiced strides. It had been almost a year since he had last been out with his skis, but it was an easy rhythm to fall into and Carter doubted if he could ever forget this feeling of gliding smoothly over the world. His breathing rose and fell in tandem with his skis as he propelled himself forward. It was almost effortless.

Turning, he skied alongside the uneven log fence that portioned off the land. The rusted wire was coated in a translucent layer of ice that hung in inverted spires. Carter paused to break off one of the largest. He pulled his scarf down away from his mouth, reaching out a tongue to taste the icicle and revel as the cold water dripped down into his mouth. It was water that was pure. In his mind, it was water as it was meant to be tasted.

Then, with a powerful stroke, he was off again, building up speed with each stride. He flew along the fence towards the place where he knew that the wires would be dipped low enough to step over. Then, it was into the broad expanse of the field where he could see straight and uninterrupted until the earth curved away into the rising sun.

Around the radiant sun, the sky was tinted with the most delicate shades of pink and orange, one fading into another, swirled in on themselves until it was impossible to distinguish where one left off and the other began. It took Carter's breath away. It was almost enough to make him forget the last time he had greeted a morning this way.

'Hey, Andrew,' he could almost hear the voice that had echoed over the snow, 'slow up a minute. I just want to watch this.'

Just as he had that time, he slowed his pace, letting himself drift to a stop on the flat ground. There should have been an answering whisper of another pair of skis beside him. 'It's times like that I wish I were a painter,' Dan had breathed softly beside him, not wanting to raise his voice enough to disturb the stillness.

And the two of them had stood in silence as the sun broke slowly over the smooth curve of the earth and the colours of the sky grew bolder and deeper. They had pulled down their scarves to let the wind play softly over their faces and pulled off their toques to let it play through their hair. They had watched the sky until the image was fixed forever in their minds.

'It's almost enough to make you forget,' Dan had said. His voice had been hushed, almost reverent as the sunlight danced over the snow, throwing thousands of tiny rainbows. It was a last forty-eight hour pass before shipping out and too far to go home. Carter had come with the Monaghans to meet him halfway. Carter's grandfather had volunteered his house. And so they had met one more time.

"Almost," Carter answered softly, even though he was the only speaker. 

The letter had finally come to Dan's parents only weeks before. Pilot Officer Dan Monaghan was reported missing on a bombing raid over Germany. Seven crew members, four parachutes: no one knew whose parachutes. Of course, the telegram had come before that. And Dan's letters continued to come, even now, all addressed before he had been reported missing.

There was still hope. There had been four parachutes. Four parachutes descended into Germany. Four airmen had survived. No one could tell which four crew members had managed to claw their way out of the burning bomber. No one could tell which three had fallen with the bomber. The Red Cross took time to work. It took time to sort out who had lived from who had died. And then it took time for the news to pass through censors and governments from one nation to another until it finally made its way back to the anxious families. There was a four in seven chance.

Carter arrived back at the house before anyone else had risen and hung his parka on the hook beside his brother's. He leaned his skis back up on the rack and made his way silently back to bed. He lay wrapped in the warm quilt that his grandmother sewn long before he was born and tried to forget that only a year ago Dan had been on the other bed, snoring softly under his own quilt.

"Are you going to stay in bed all day?" Carter awoke to Brian hovering over his bed. "We've been up for ages." Brian started for the door as soon as he saw that Carter had opened his eyes. "We can't eat without you," he called over his shoulder.

Carter sat up and dropped his feet to the hardwood floor. He pulled his clothes back on and padded down to the kitchen in his stocking feet. His family was gathered in the cheery room. His grandfather sat at the head of the table, deep in conversation with his father. Brian and Chris sat at the table, napkins spread out across their laps, ready to eat already. Anne stood with her mother-in-law at the stove, ladling oatmeal into bowls.

"I see you finally decided to get up," Chris laughed, looking pointedly over his shoulder at the clock. It had been two hours since Carter had returned from his pre-dawn trip.

"I looked in on you," his mother said, "but you were sleeping so peacefully I thought it a shame to disturb you." She took several filled bowls in her hands and moved to set them on the table before the waiting men.

Carter took his own seat at the table. Swift Eagle, Carter's grandfather, looked up from his discussion to catch Carter's eyes. Carter was embarrassed. He thought at first that he had disappointed his grandfather. Then Swift Eagle's eyes, undimmed by age, darted quickly to the ski rack where a little puddle of water could be seen beneath Carter's skis, if you knew what you were looking for.


	5. Detroit, Michigan

December 7, 1941 – Detroit, Michigan

                A single light burned in the window of the neat bungalow and that was the window that the three shadowy figures crept under.  "Quiet," one hissed softly at one of the others when they tripped over something that had been hidden in the dark, "do you want to wake the whole neighbourhood?"

"I seem to remember that you made quite a racket yourself at my house," the second boy whispered back.  "I heard you before you even threw the pebbles at my window."

The first boy didn't answer.  He just started searching through the pockets of his jacket for something.  After a second, he spoke again, "Well then how come it took all of the pebbles to get you to open the window?"

The second boy shrugged.  "I wanted to see if your aim had improved any."

Reaching down, the first boy improvised a snowball.  "We'll have to make do with this and hope that it doesn't wake up his parents."

"You'd better not wake his parents," the third boy cautioned.  "You know that Mrs Kinchloe's the best cook on the street and I'm not risking loosing access to her cookie jar."

"That's why we're letting you take full responsibility for this one, Tommy," the second boy agreed.  "Your mom's second best and she can't cut you off.

"Thanks, guys," Tommy answered.  "And you sound like you're five years old.  Geez, you don't want to loose access to the cookie jar?  What's that?"

"Listen to yourself.  We sound childish for not wanting to loose our cookies.  You're the one who drags us out of bed every year to go play in the snow.  And we're how old now?"  The first boy was indignant and he forgot to keep his voice down.

"You going to stand under my window all day arguing or are we going to go?" a voice said from behind them.

The three boys spun around nervously, caught in the act.  Tommy still held the incriminating snowball in his hand.  "Oh, Kinch, it's just you," one sighed.

"Yeah.  Did someone bother to plan out where we're going this year?  Or is it going to be another one of those years where the Jones' kids wind up with Mrs Samson's snowman?"  Kinch tucked the ends of his knitted mitts into the cuffs of his jacket.

"You know very well that the only reason that year was so confused was that you were in the hospital.  And you won't let us forget it.  Not that anyone minded.  I think Mrs Samson liked the excuse to have the kids over in her yard," Tommy retorted, lobbing the snowball off in Kinch's direction.  It was a half-hearted toss and fell to the ground at Kinch's feet.

"Billy, did you bring everything?" Kinch inquired.  "Because if we have to go scrounging for carrot-substitutes at three in the morning again…"  He let his voice trail off as he shook his head.

"It's all waiting on the corner.  I didn't feel the need to haul it all the way over here."  Billy glared over at the third boy.  "And it was Derek's job to bring the carrots that year.  I just got stuck with the blame."

"Do the three of you feel like standing out in the snow for four hours discussing this or are we going to get moving?" Tommy asked, starting off down the street.  "I've got class in the morning and would appreciate at least a few hours of sleep."

"Ugh," Billy responded, following hard on Tommy's heels.  "I've got Communications final in three days.  I hope they're going to be extremely generous with the partial marks.  My parents have shelled out so much tuition money I think they'd shoot me if I failed."

Kinch and Derek were quiet as Tommy and Billy started complaining about their profs and their upcoming finals.  The conversation continued as they collected the bag of supplies and made their way to a white house at the end of the street.  "Hey, Kinch, Derek," Billy said as they quietly pulled open the gate and walked up the carefully shovelled path, "how are your classes going?"

"Fine," Derek answered, perhaps a little sharply.  "I mean, we take the same classes you do, right?"

"Yeah," Tommy answered, his tone carefully nonchalant.  "We just wondered how they were going.  You two don't talk much about them."  There was an awkward pause for a second.  Then Tommy asked, his voice still carefully casual, "This one's the fort, right?"

Kinch rolled his dark eyes.  "Yeah, but remember, it has to be accessible by Mr Clemmons's walker."  The other three laughed and Kinch shot a grateful look at Tommy.  School was sort of a touchy subject.  Derek especially had always had a hard time accepting that he and Kinch would always be separated from Tommy and Billy, no matter how hard they worked or how smart they were, just because of the colour of their skin.  It had never stopped the four boys from being friends, but sometimes the gap was there.  It was something that they had all had to work to bridge, especially as they grew older and met people from outside their little neighbourhood.

Derek didn't know it, but both Tommy and Billy had been ostracized at their schools from time to time growing up because their best friends were two black boys.  In elementary school, Billy and Tommy had been able to beat up the kids who said nasty things about Derek and Kinch.  It hadn't changed their opinions at all, but it had stopped some of the comments.  But as they grew older, they had had to just let the comments slide.  They didn't have much of a choice; the two of them couldn't take on the entire world.

"Standard snowman then?" Billy questioned, digging into the bag for a carrot.

"Tommy and I'll go across the street and get started on the fort for the Tillmans," Derek offered.  "You two want to finish here and bring the flags over when you're done?"

"Sure," Kinch answered.  "I wouldn't mind some sleep tonight either."  Bending down, he started compacting the snow into a round ball that he could shape into the body of a snowman.  On the other side of the path, Billy was doing the same thing.  And across the street, Tommy and Derek were laying out the foundation for a snow fort.

"We don't usually get snow like this until later in the year," Billy noted.  "Not usually until closer to Christmas."

"I wouldn't complain.  You remember the year that we couldn't get out until after Christmas?  The kids were all so disappointed that Jack Frost and his helpers hadn't been out to make their forts," Kinch reminisced.

"Yeah.  I honestly thought that Millie Jones was going to cry that last morning before we came.  Every morning she'd wake up and race to the front window to see if anything had happened during the night," Billy laughed, pushing the growing snowball across the yard, picking up mass as he went.  "Then the morning after she was so excited that she managed to convince her mom to let her come out and play in the snow before school."

"Whose idea was this in the first place?" Kinch asked, rolling his own snowball across to where Billy had let his come to rest.  "I don't even remember anymore."  He lifted his ball of snow up on top of Billy's, holding it in place while Billy smoothed snow around the joint to make sure that it would hold.

"You know," Billy commented, "I always thought that it was Tommy's idea.  But tonight when he came to my window to get me, he said something about it being my idea.  And I know that I didn't come up with it."

Kinch's brows furrowed as he stepped away from the developing snowman.  "I know it started the year that the girls wanted to go carolling and we refused."

"I thought it was the winter that Mr Samson died."

"Wasn't it the same year?  I thought that the girls wanted to go carolling because they thought it would cheer people up."

"Yeah," Billy agreed, already starting to roll the ball that would be lifted in place to form the head.  "And Derek's mom mentioned that Mr Samson had always made the big snowman that just seemed to appear one night in the Samson's yard and that Mrs Samson would probably really miss it."

"Right.  I had forgotten about that.  Maybe it was Derek's idea."

"I know that it was Tommy's idea to do something for the Tillmans the next year because Mr Tillman lost his job that fall.  You remember how excited they were that this fort had just suddenly grown on their front yard in the middle of the night?"

"I sure remember how confused my mom was when all of my winter things were soaking wet the next morning.  Good thing I had left my window open after I snuck back in.  I just convinced her that some snow must have blown in during the night and I didn't notice.  I don't think she believed me, but she never said anything about it again."

"You're lucky," Billy said, lifting the head up into place and waiting while Kinch did the job of securing it.  "My mom nearly had a fit when she saw my wet stuff.  She never figured out that I had been outside after I had sent to bed, but I was grounded for two days for not properly caring for my stuff.  She thought that I had forgotten to hang it up after coming in at dark."

"That's why you missed the skating party?" Kinch asked.  Billy nodded morosely.  Kinch chuckled, "Serves you right for trying to do a good deed."

"It took two years to learn the lesson.  Remember the second year I couldn't use my new sled for a week?"  Kinch nodded, pulling two dark lumps from his pocket and pressing them into the snowman for eyes.  "She caught me with wet stuff again that year.  After that I always made sure to stretch my mitts and scarf over the radiator before I crawled back into bed."  Kinch laughed again, the sound echoing across the empty street.

"I can't believe you got caught twice."

"Neither can I," Billy stated, twisting the carrot into place.  "I can't believe that we haven't actually been caught by someone.  It's been like eight years and people still haven't caught on."

"Or at least they haven't said anything," Kinch countered.  He was pretty sure that they had been caught at least once.  Or that someone had figured out what was going on.

"What do you mean?"

"It seems like every year my mom will mention, off-hand, of course, that so-and-so had had a tough year or it's a shame that such-and-such a person won't be having such a great Christmas."  Kinch reached down to grab the bag of stuff as they passed on their way across the street to help finish up the fort.  "So I always made sure that we made it to that house that year."

"You know," Billy commented, "my mom's done the same thing.  Mentioning that something's happened to this person or that, but usually I'm not even in the room.  It's just those conversations that you overhear from the next room.  Those have been the houses that I suggest."

"Maybe you didn't learn the lesson about putting your stuff out to dry," Kinch pointed out.  "Maybe your parents just clued in to the fact of what we were doing."  Billy shrugged.

"I don't really care how it happened, so long as I wasn't being punished for it."  Billy paused in his step.  "You know, what happens when we can't do it anymore?"

"You getting to old for this?" Kinch joked, sticking out a foot to trip up his friend as Billy started forward again.  Billy didn't fall for it, just stepped around Kinch's foot and tried to push him into the bank at the side of the road.

"You know we won't be around forever."

"I know," Kinch answered, suddenly more serious again.  "I guess Jack Frost and his helpers will just have to disappear completely.  It's not like we can stick around just to make snowmen at Christmas-time.  Especially if things keep going the way they have been overseas.  We both know that we won't be able to stay out of it forever.  We'll be getting draft notices soon."

"I got mine already," Billy admitted.  "It's just a shame.  So many kids are going to be disappointed."

Kinch sighed.  "I know.  But we've all got to grow up sometime."  Always the most serious of his friends, it was slightly ironic to hear that statement coming from Kinch's lips in that fashion.  But it was true.

"We'll have to keep our eyes peeled for replacements," Billy commented, trying one more time to hip check Kinch into the snow.

"Yeah," Kinch commented, his voice still serious as he tackled Billy down into the snow.


End file.
